


In Which John Watson Learns Not to Touch Mycroft's Stuff

by second_skin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Jealousy, M/M, Motorcycles, Plot What Plot, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-24
Updated: 2012-07-24
Packaged: 2017-11-10 16:15:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/468227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/pseuds/second_skin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Fill for LJ's Sherlockmas fest: Sherlock's Summer Vacay. Prompt from mahmfic: 92. Mycroft/Lestrade: sex in a public place, with just a small touch of 48. John and Lestrade; John rides behind Greg on Lestrade's motorcycle. </em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which John Watson Learns Not to Touch Mycroft's Stuff

**Author's Note:**

> So happy to say that there is a Russian version of this story, translated by [Shae,](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Shae/pseuds/Shae) [here.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3584775) Thank you for the translation!

John knew something was amiss when he saw Mycroft standing there with a twisted, furious look on his usually calm face. Obviously, he not only had his knickers in a twist about something, but was probably about to use some museum-quality medieval torture devices to exact his bloody justice, once he had his culprit. John cursed under his breath, wishing Sherlock’s brother had just phoned in his request as usual, rather than showing up to darken the doorway of 221 Baker Street on this beautiful summer afternoon.

John had enjoyed his day out with Greg. They'd played a little football in the park and met up with some of Greg's old school chums for lunch. And John had a bit of a thrill riding on the back of the Inspector's candy-apple red motorbike, feeling the delicious vibrations of the engine in his legs, hugging the bike--and in his arms, wrapped around Greg's muscular torso. John wasn’t so keen on coming back to the real world of sulky Holmeses—the older or the younger variety—to be honest. Why did those two have to turn everything into a bloody drama?

As they pulled up in front of 221, John wondered what in the world was the source of Mycroft’s anger this time. He saw Sherlock looking down from the window and gave him a wave before climbing off the bike and taking off his helmet. He tried his most charming grin, hoping to defuse Mycroft’s incendiary mood.

“Hello, Mycroft! Come for a friendly visit, did you? Shall we put the kettle on or . . . “

John stopped speaking when Mycroft shoved his umbrella hard against the doctor’s chest and lunged at Greg. The D.I. had just taken off his own helmet and unzipped his leather jacket before glancing at Mycroft with a raised eyebrow. The only words he managed to get out were, “Hey, My, it’s not what you think . . . “

John swallowed hard and stepped back, tripping on a crack in the pavement and using the umbrella to right himself. He felt his pulse racing and his mouth going dry as he watched Mycroft take possession of Greg Lestrade like some half-mad animal.

Mycroft laid his hands on either side of Greg’s face and looked into his eyes, breathing hard but steadily, before weaving his fingers into Greg’s short, silver hair and pulling him closer. Mycroft then kissed Greg with such urgency, such a sense of ownership that John couldn’t bring himself to turn away, though his conscience told him he should leave the two men alone—or better yet, suggest they take their passion somewhere a little more private.

Mycroft’s lips glided slowly over the planes of Greg’s face and his tongue flicked out to wet both their lips before moaning and pressing long, fierce kisses to his mouth. Greg broke away, panting and gasping. But after a few gulps of air, he fastened his broad hands around Mycroft’s neck and locked their lips together again.

John still couldn't move. Couldn't look away.

He finally realized that this was going much, much farther than the tongue bath Mycroft had inflicted on the copper’s face or the purple love bites scattered across his neck. Mycroft had slowly maneuvered Greg over to his car, but instead of just opening the door and climbing in to make a getaway, Mycroft had pushed his hands under Greg’s battered leather jacket, fisted his t-shirt, and shoved him hard against the side of the black limousine. Hard enough to make the car bounce with the force of the impact.

John watched in disbelief as Mycroft held Greg’s shirt with one hand, keeping up a steady barrage of wet kisses and whispered curses, and flipped open the button of Greg’s jeans with the other hand. He pulled down the zip just halfway—enough to slide his hand in and begin working. When he realized Greg wasn't wearing anything under his jeans, John suddenly felt his own erection stiffen. He caught a glimpse of Mycroft's thumb circling the tip of Greg's cock, slick with pre-come, and John's own cock began leaking into his pants.

Greg shuddered and pulled his mouth away from Mycroft’s. The D.I.’s lips were shiny and swollen red and his eyes were black and unfocused. John's throat tightened and he wanted to touch himself, but squeezed the umbrella tight instead--feeling sure that Greg was about to stop this madness. This bit of theatre-in-the-round that had passersby gawking and shuffling their children to the other side of the street. But instead of pushing Mycroft away, Greg’s head rolled to he side and he closed his eyes, a smile flitting across his mouth, his tongue licking away Mycroft's saliva. He offered his neck to Mycroft again and thrust up into his fist in a quickening rhythm.

Mycroft sucked shamelessly at Greg's jaw and collarbone and held the copper tight through his gasping, groaning climax, whispering, "Yes, yes, yes. You'll always come for me. Always. Just for me."

Mycroft removed his hand and wiped it on his grey waistcoat. The two men shared a final kiss, and Mycroft pivoted on one heel to seize his umbrella from John with a harsh glare.

“Hands off, Dr. Watson. If I see you on his motorcycle again, you'll lose the use of both your legs.” he growled. “Good day.”

Greg zipped and buttoned his jeans and stumbled back to his bike. Turning to John with a blissful grin, he waved farewell with a wink. “Thanks, doc—thanks for a bloody brilliant afternoon."

 

John shook his head in disbelief. He stood in the street a few minutes after Greg rode away, trying to get some blood moving back towards his brain. When he opened the door to 221B, he found Sherlock with a look of fury in his eyes.

“I'm afraid that pathological jealousy runs in the family, John.”

John swallowed hard, shut the door, and smiled.


End file.
